


The One with the Sex Bet

by Linsky



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 Season, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, M/M, Sex Bet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 15:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16267277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky
Summary: Patrick calls him in August, when Jonny’s still in Manitoba. “So I think we need to start it up again,” he says.





	The One with the Sex Bet

**Author's Note:**

> Hat-trick fic for Jonny!
> 
> So, I projected into the future for this one, and I was maybe slightly less optimistic than I actually feel with regard to the next few games. I like to think of it as a reverse jinx. :D Don’t worry—nothing very bad happens in the story (and hopefully not in real life, either!).
> 
> The usual suspects, Holly and Sheena, are to blame for this one. :P
> 
> I [tumble](https://linskywords.tumblr.com/)!

Patrick calls him in August, when Jonny’s still in Manitoba. “So I think we need to start it up again,” he says.

Jonny’s sorting through his fishing equipment, looking for the rod he wants to use tomorrow. He and Pat talk on the phone every couple of weeks in the off-season; he doesn’t have any reason to think there’s anything special about this call. “Start what?”

“You know,” Patrick says. “The thing. The bet.”

“What bet?”

“The sex bet,” Patrick says, and Jonny drops the handful of rods he’s carrying.

“You—the—with the—what?” Jonny manages to get out a minute later.

“You _know,_ ” Patrick says, sounding amused and also a little impatient. “The thing we did when we were rookies.”

“That wasn’t—we didn’t have a bet when we were rookies,” Jonny says. Or did they? It’s hard to remember those very first days, when he didn’t know Patrick, really, and there’s a stranger in his memories. Most of his later memories from that year are bright under the fluorescent lights of a hockey arena or warm with Pat’s eyes on him as they moved urgently together.

“Sure we did,” Patrick says. “You remember. We fucked if we won the game, or if one of us scored or something.”

Jonny…does remember that, sort of. Not a bet. But the way Patrick would always eel out of range of him, cold and shut off, if they hadn’t won the game. If neither of them had a point. Jonny always thought it was because Patrick wasn’t in the mood.

“Oh,” he says, feeling dumb. “Yeah, of course. And you—you want to—”

“We’ve gotta do something,” Patrick says. “Last season was…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. They both know what last season was. Most of Jonny’s workouts this summer have been driven by a very real understanding of what last season was, especially for him.

“I thought you said we shouldn’t,” Jonny says. Patrick said a lot more than that, after the second Cup. Things like “dangerous” and “aren’t we too old for this” and other things that Jonny sometimes still thinks about when he can’t sleep.

“Hey, it worked, those years,” Patrick says. “Maybe I was wrong. You’re the one who’s all about incentives and visualization and shit. Maybe this is just what we have to do.”

Jonny’s sitting on the floor now, in the middle of the mess of the fishing rods. His heart is racing like he just got through the VO2 max test. He should be thinking about the season, maybe, but all he can think about is Patrick spread out on the bed, falling apart under his hands. “Okay,” he says.

***

It’s two weeks before Jonny heads back to Chicago. He spends the two weeks fishing and golfing with buddies, goes up to the cabin for a few days with his folks, really tries to be there with everyone since he won’t be for the next eight-plus months. He doesn’t do a very good job of it, though; he’s having a hard time focusing on anything.

“You know, you could have had Lindsey up here,” his mom says at one point when they’re at the cabin.

“Huh?” Jonny says.

“Much as we love having you to ourselves,” she says. She tips her head toward the phone in his hand.

Jonny can feel the silly grin that was on his mouth, the one he was aiming at the phone as he texted, and he smooths it out. He doesn’t feel bad about texting Patrick—Lindsey doesn’t care about that. Never has, no matter how many other guys Jonny’s been hooking up with. But he does feel guilty for misleading his parents about what’s going on with them. They’re expecting him to propose any day now, he knows, and he doesn’t know how to tell them they’re wrong.

“She had some work to do,” he says instead, and he watches his mother buy the excuse, not questioning anything.

This was one of the things Patrick brought up back in 2013, when he decided they had to stop. “We’re lying to our families,” he said, and Jonny knew that wasn’t just a line for him. He knew how much it hurt Patrick to have anything big in his life he couldn’t discuss with his parents and his sisters. And by that point Jonny could recite all the reasons Patrick had for why he couldn’t tell them. They couldn’t keep being a secret like this, Patrick said. And that meant they had to stop hooking up.

That’s still the time Jonny thinks about most often, when he thinks about those days. Not the absolute last time: that was the time that ended with that talk, and it felt sad and strange and desperate from the start. But the second-to-last time, just after game five of that final series against Boston, when Patrick had two of the three goals and he jumped on Jonny as soon as they were alone, both of them laughing and happy and hungry for each other. Patrick didn’t fuck him all that often, but he did that night, hands tight on Jonny’s hips and cock driving into him like they were still fighting for the W together. After Patrick came, he went pliant and loose, and Jonny fucked him then, Patrick falling apart under his dick and moaning softly with every thrust.

Jonny still sometimes hears those moans when he jerks off. He tries not to, because he thinks maybe it’s creepy now that Patrick doesn’t want to do it anymore. But it’s fine now, because they’re going to do it again.

Patrick’s sent him another text: a crying-laughing emoji at the GIF Jonny sent. Jonny feels the grin reappear on his face, automatic and inevitable.

***

Jonny’s fucked a lot of guys over the years. Even one this summer—a friend from college, one of the guys who originally helped Jonny figure out that maybe admiring the bodies of the other guys in the locker room was a little less about their athleticism and a little more about, well, their bodies. Patrick isn’t the sum total of his experience or anything. But he is the guy Jonny’s fucked the most, off and on for six whole years, and consequently the guy who pops into Jonny’s mind the most when he thinks about it. Knowing they’re going to be doing it again…Jonny’s having trouble thinking about anything else.

He likes what his and Patrick’s relationship has become in the past five years, the two of them growing closer as the vets who are trying to keep the team afloat. He hasn’t been pining or anything. But Patrick’s barely through the door of Jonny’s condo in Chicago when Jonny kisses him.

He’s practically still in the hallway, actually: standing there with his luggage, right where anyone could walk by, but it’s the penthouse and no one ever _does_ walk by and fuck it, Patrick’s mouth is ridiculous and has been ridiculous for the past five years and it’s been so long since he’s walked through a door and Jonny’s been able to kiss him like this.

Patrick breaks the kiss a few minutes in, looking dazed. Jonny always loved how he’d look like that, kind of thunderstruck, whenever they started something. That’s a look he hasn’t gotten to see lately. He’s had so many sides of Patrick but not this one. “My plane just landed an hour ago,” Patrick says.

“Mm,” Jonny says, mouthing at the stubble on his jaw.

“I should probably shower, or—”

Jonny presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Or we should talk, or—”

Jonny aims a little more for the center, tonguing that full bottom lip of Patrick’s.

“Okay, fuck it,” Patrick says, and dives back in.

They end up on the couch in the living room, making out. When Jonny’s thought about being with Patrick again over the past five years—which, okay, maybe he’s thought about more than he should have—he’s thought about having sex, stripping Patrick bare and pushing into him and making him moan. But now that Patrick’s under his hands and mouth again he can’t stop touching. He keeps being struck over and over again with the little things, the little curl of the tongue that Patrick always used to do and the way his hand clenches on Jonny’s hip and the little hitching breaths he makes when he can’t get enough air and Jonny can’t even think about going for more. It’s already so much.

He can’t say he forgot how good it was to kiss Patrick. He always knew it was good. But he thought kissing other people was good, too, and now that he’s kissing Patrick he’s wondering if he was right about that.

He definitely has thought about being with Patrick over the past few years, but he’s tried not to. He’s tried to push it down and let their friendship be a normal one. And now this is a shock to his system, every second a revelation.

They slide down the cushions until they’re lying down, on their sides facing each other with their legs hooked together. Jonny can feel that Patrick’s hard, their cocks rubbing together a little while they kiss, but it feels too good to rush. Patrick has new muscle all over his body and Jonny wants to explore it piece by piece. His hand is on Patrick’s waist right now, fingers wandering, feeling Patrick’s abs and his ass and the new layers of muscle he’s built up in his back. Patrick’s making all these little noises that Jonny thinks are maybe tied to sensitive spots but after a while realizes they come no matter where he touches. Like Patrick’s as overwhelmed by this as he is.

It’s just—every time he puts his hands on him, smooths a thumb over his cheek or nuzzles behind his ear or slides a hand into his curls, it’s always Patrick. Every inch of him is Patrick and it never stops. How did Jonny get through the last five years without it?

Patrick’s eyes are closed and his cheeks flushed pink—Jonny keeps wanting to pull back to look and then wanting to be closer, to touch and taste. He brushes Patrick’s eyelashes with his nose and dips his tongue out to taste his cheek and works his way back to his mouth when Patrick moans for it, blindly. Their tongues slide together like flint and steel and it’s almost too hot to handle.

They can’t keep it up forever. Soon their hips are grinding together and Patrick’s taking these little shuddery breaths against Jonny’s mouth. Jonny has a hand splayed on Patrick’s ass, pulling him in for more friction, and he feels like he hasn’t been this hard in months.

“Can I fuck you?” he whispers.

Patrick’s mouth is open, gasping for air as their cocks slide together. “I—oh,” he says, eyelids fluttering like he wants to open them but can’t. “I—yes, but—no,” he says, stopping Jonny when he goes to pull his pants down. He opens his eyes with what looks like effort. “Not until you score.”

Jonny groans and thunks his head against the couch. Of course—he remembers what Patrick said, about a bet—he should have seen this coming. But he was more focused on having Patrick under his hands again, being able to kiss him and touch him and feel him shiver and, fuck, he’s so hard now he thinks he could drill through concrete. “Please tell me we can still—”

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Patrick says, pulling down his own sweats in the front so that his cock is exposed. Jonny’s own cock jerks at the sight of it—it’s so _familiar,_ he can practically taste it in his mouth again. Patrick hauls down Jonny’s sweats as well so that their cocks are pressed together and licks his hand and Jonny—Jonny is gone. Patrick’s holding their cocks together and panting into Jonny’s shoulder and Jonny’s fingers and toes are tingling and his brain is shorting out and he comes with his eyes glued to Patrick’s face, trying to catch as much of his expression as possible.

He’s not disappointed. Patrick’s face does the ridiculous eyelash-fluttery thing it always did when he came, the face that Jonny has occasionally superimposed on the faces of people he’s sleeping with, and Jonny’s cock gives an extra spurt of come at the sight. He slides his hand along the side of Patrick’s face, wanting to feel that expression, to hold it in his palm, and Patrick opens sleepy eyes to look at him.

Fuck. Jonny really can’t believe he went so long without this.

“Blowjobs for assists,” Patrick says later, when they’ve gone back to lazily making out. Jonny can’t make himself stop. “Handies for wins. Fucking for goals.”

Jonny can get on board with that. “Who fucks who?”

“Goal-scorer does the fucking,” Patrick says, and Jonny groans. Patrick always scores more than he does, and Jonny likes being fucked, but…

“Guess now you’ll have an incentive to score,” Patrick says, and Jonny knows that’s the whole point here—hell, he’s the one who’s all about visualization and shit—but he doesn’t know how he’s going to make it.

***

Patrick decides they shouldn’t fuck again at all until the season starts. Jonny approves strongly, when Patrick first says it. He’s all about the incentives. But it ends up being harder than he expects, seeing Patrick over the next month and not being able to touch him.

It shouldn’t be hard; Jonny’s had five years to get used to it. But it’s different now. He shouldn’t have let himself, when he first saw Patrick again—shouldn’t have dived in so blindly. His mouth remembers the taste of Patrick’s now, and he feels like he has to keep himself on a physical tether every time they’re around each other now, he wants so badly to lean in and taste him again.

It reminds him of another thing he forgot: how hard it was their rookie year on the nights Patrick would turn away and not seem interested in anything. He knows in retrospect that it was more tied to their games than he even thought. But at the time it just felt like rejection, and he had to fight really hard not to let it bring him down.

He got better at it as the years went on—and Patrick stopped turning away so much, after that first year. He’s not even sure why it’s hitting him so hard this time. But he’s really looking forward to the games starting.

There’s a temptation, before their first game against Ottawa, to tell himself not to expect to much: if neither of them scores tonight, if they lose the game, then he’ll end up with nothing, and that will hit even harder if he’s let himself hope. But he’s going to hope either way, honestly, and he knows better than to tell himself he’s not going to score. The whole point of this is to serve their hockey, not the other way around.

So he sits for a minute before they hit the ice and pictures it: the puck flying into the goal. The way his shot will slip past the goalie, the way the goal light will flash as he jumps into a celly.

And it does.

Halfway through the first period, when they’re already tied one-one and they need to score, the puck goes right past Anderson blocker-side and Jonny can’t keep the smile off his face. Especially when he meets Patrick’s eyes and sees the fire there. “We’re back,” Jonny says, and gives himself three seconds to picture Patrick moaning under him before he focuses on the game again, that heat in his gut powering his play.

It’s a great game. Patrick scores in overtime on a pass from Jonny, winning them the game, just what they needed to start a season that’s going to be infinitely better than the last one.

Jonny can barely keep his hands to himself on the plane ride back. “You’re panting,” Patrick whispers to him as Jonny fights to get rid of a hard-on that’s big enough to ride in its own seat.

“You’re _there,_ ” Jonny hisses back to him, and the smile that lights up Patrick’s eyes doesn’t help at _all._ Jonny gets his hand around Patrick’s thigh under the little airline blanket and grips hard, fingers flexing, as the smile falls off Patrick’s face and he starts breathing a little hard himself.

“What do you wanna do first?” Patrick asks.

They won the game. They each have a goal and an assist. That’s— _five times._ Jonny never expected to have so much to choose from. He feels rich, like when he got drafted, like when he got his signing bonus, when the whole world opened up for him. “I want to fuck you,” he says, and Patrick’s eyelids sweep down for a minute. Then he leans his head against Jonny’s shoulder and Jonny keeps his hand clenched around Patrick’s thigh and they try to keep it together for the rest of the flight.

Patrick’s family isn’t around, since their first two games are away. Jonny follows him back to his condo without discussing it. They’re both exhausted—the flight didn’t get in until well after midnight—but their hands are on each other as soon as they’re through Patrick’s door.

Jonny had kind of forgotten sex could be urgent like this. He’d vaguely noticed, in recent years, that things seemed chiller. He figured it was one of the things that happened when you got older. He could still have amazing sex with people; it just wasn’t going to have that _tear-your-clothes-off-right-now_ desperation behind it. But now he feels like if he doesn’t get at Patrick’s skin right now he’s going to choke on his own need and die.

“Fucking—bed,” Patrick gasps out, so obviously right there with him, and Jonny wants to swallow him up and never let go. He wants to be _inside_ of him.

It doesn’t get any less urgent when his fingers are twisting in Patrick, loosening him up. “So tight,” Jonny says, staring at the way Patrick’s stomach muscles are jumping as his fingers slide against the walls of his hole.

“It’s been—a while—come _on_ ,” Patrick says, kicking him, as Jonny closes his eyes on a moan.

The feeling of Patrick’s ass, opening for him inch by torturous inch. The cling of him as Jonny slides out and pushes in again. The color on Patrick’s cheeks as he arches up for it, one hand on his cock and the other on his nipple, then just gripping the sheets as Jonny finds the right angle and coming untouched the way Jonny’s been telling himself doesn’t matter with every sex partner since. Losing it all over himself, ass clenching on Jonny’s cock and ripping his orgasm out of him and leaving him lightheaded and stunned.

“I forgot that it was like that,” Patrick whispers long minutes later, when Jonny’s almost asleep. Jonny could be asleep, could pretend he didn’t hear—but he noses his way down to Patrick’s mouth and kisses him, long lazy kisses where they fall asleep between one and the next.

The next morning they bring each other off in the shower, licking hot water from each other’s lips.

Jonny decides he should carry a balance into the next game. It might be against the spirit of the bet, but—just in case no one scores and they don’t win and he has to face a loss with nothing to get him through it. But that night they have a team dinner, and Jonny can’t keep his eyes off Patrick’s mouth, and he doesn’t hesitate to follow Patrick home.

Maybe kissing doesn’t have to be part of the bet, he thinks as they make out in Patrick’s entryway again. Maybe they can kiss even when they’re not going to have sex, just to get them through. It seems fair to him as he stands there with Patrick held tight against him and his head spinning from chasing kisses more than breath.

“My turn,” Patrick says, running a hand over Jonny’s ass, and a thrill goes through Jonny’s gut.

It’s not an entirely easy thrill. He’s thought a lot over the past five years about how maybe he doesn’t like to be fucked. He always liked the physical sensations—hell, a prostate is nothing to complain about. But every time he’s tried it with a guy in recent years he hasn’t liked the feeling of letting someone in like that. Even if he was on top, riding them, there was something…he just didn’t like it, is all.

So he hasn’t been looking forward to this part as much as the other stuff they won because of last night’s game. He hasn’t _not_ been looking forward to it, because he’s never going to pass up a chance to have sex with Patrick. But this has definitely been lowest on his list.

He tenses up a little when Patrick starts pressing on his hole, enough that Patrick notices. “Wow, you’re super tight,” he says. Jonny opens his mouth and thinks about saying something—he feels like such a wimp, but he knows Patrick wouldn’t actually want to do something Jonny didn’t like. He could just—

“What,” Patrick says, “don’t want this inside you?”

Patrick’s grinning at him, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, and his left hand is wrapped around his cock. It’s long and blood-red and Jonny suddenly remembers what it was like when it was moving in him. When it would hit his prostate, and Patrick’s face would be screwed up with the intensity of it, or his mouth dropping open in surprise, or—

“Oh,” Patrick says, as Jonny’s hole suddenly opens up enough for his finger to pop in. “Okay, never mind,” and his eyes are on the place where his finger is sliding into Jonny’s body, sliding in and out, and the look on his face is something Jonny wants more of. He would open a lot more of himself than this if it would get that look to stay on Patrick’s face.

By the time Patrick’s cock is sliding into him, Jonny’s forgotten that this was anything he ever didn’t want. He’s snapping at Patrick to do it more, do it faster, and Patrick’s bitching at him but doing it, making sparkles fly all over Jonny’s vision.

Jonny forgot it could feel like this. Forgot it could feel like taking someone into himself is making him more, not less; forgot he could feel so greedy for it that Patrick’s cock inside of him isn’t enough. Forgot what it was like to want someone in all the ways possible.

He doesn’t come while Patrick’s fucking him, but he comes after, Patrick’s hand on him while his spent cock is still in Jonny’s ass, whimpers being wrung out of Patrick every time Jonny clenches down. Jonny comes so hard he can barely move.

He gets Patrick in his arms afterward, sleepy and affectionate. Jonny kisses his hairline and thinks that if he’d still had a turn left, he could have fucked Patrick after he’d come, when Patrick was all oversensitive from his orgasm. They both used to love that. But he already used his fuck, and—well. That’s the point of this, after all: incentive to score more goals.

“I think,” he whispers into Patrick’s hair, “we should both score a lot this year.”

“Mm,” Patrick says sleepily against him. The sound flies down Jonny’s throat and settles in his stomach, a warm glow.

***

They use up their blowjobs the next morning before the flight to St. Louis. Jonny thinks about trying to save them, and then he thinks about Patrick’s mouth wrapped around his cock. Then he can’t remember anything for a long time except how to fall apart from pleasure.

“Why did we ever fucking stop this?” he mutters afterward, without thinking.

There’s an awkward silence. “Can’t have been that good a reason,” Patrick finally says, and Jonny relaxes. He didn’t mean—he doesn’t want Patrick to think he’s pushing for more than he wants to give. He doesn’t want to give Patrick a reason to stop this.

He’s just gonna have to score more goals, is all.

It’s always rough playing St. Louis: there’s a little too much bad blood between the two teams pushing things to a higher level of aggression than usual. Jonny remembers finding that draining a couple of times in the past, but today he just finds it firing him up. He goes after the puck with the kind of vigor he associates with playoffs, and he does score.

He scores three times.

“Fucking hat trick!” Patrick shouts in his ear in the post-game celly, after Jonny’s game-winning-goal in overtime. Jonny can’t even bring himself to let go of him. To be fair, he doesn’t try that hard, and Patrick doesn’t try to move away. Jonny just keeps thinking: three times. He’ll get to fuck Patrick _three times._ And Patrick scored, too, and got an assist, and they won, and that’s _six_ times. It’s hard to worry about anything when he has six times coming up.

They only use the handies that night, because they have another game in Toronto the next day. They have three days off after that; Jonny can fuck Patrick then. Maybe he’ll even have earned more of a surplus. For now he just brings Patrick home with him and pulls him into the bedroom and kisses him hungrily until Patrick’s panting too much from Jonny’s hand on him to kiss properly anymore.

Jonny goes to sleep with his nose in Patrick’s hair, like he used to back when they shared a hotel room, and decides this is going to be the best season ever.

***

Patrick’s family is in town for the game against Toronto, so he has to leave Jonny’s early the next morning. Jonny decides that’s probably a good thing: he keeps thinking about those three times he’ll get to fuck Patrick, and he definitely wouldn’t be able to hold back if he wakes up with Patrick all warm and draped across him.

Jonny feels like his Patrick resistance has kind of gone down the drain. He built up really good resistance over the past five years, but now he’s wondering if he can make it until tonight when he can get Patrick alone again. It’s hard to think of it as a problem, though—especially with the way they’ve both been playing so far. Especially if they can keep it up tonight.

The game that night is against the Leafs, and it’s insane from the very beginning: two goals on each side in the first period. And the first of them in Jonny’s.

Jonny hasn’t felt like this about scoring in years. It’s like everything that used to work for him is working again; he has no idea why it didn’t these past couple of seasons, but it’s all locked back into place like it never left. Like—like all he needed in order to start scoring was to fuck Patrick.

It’s such a dumb theory. But he meets Patrick’s eyes on the bench, and the bubbling happiness in his stomach powers him through the rest of the game.

He doesn’t score again. The team falls apart a little in the second period, like they often do, and they’re down five-four with a minute and a half left. But then Patrick scores—an absolute beauty of a shot, at an almost impossible angle, and Jonny jumps up with the rest of the team, unable to look away from Patrick, unable to believe they just tied the game.

Until thirty seconds later, when Matthews scores again.

After that it’s a blur. They’ve pulled the goalie, and Jonny’s fighting desperately with the others to make something happen, anything. A goal can happen in any given minute of the game; he knows that. He refuses to believe it won’t. And sure enough, it does—from Patrick. Again, with thirty seconds left in the game, and Jonny skates up to him in the celly and—

His whole body is buzzing with it after the game, while he talks to the media, while he goes on about their overtime loss and how he doesn’t even care about it because his team is made of fighters. He’s not lying even a little bit. The way they fought back tonight, every time the Leafs scored; the way _Patrick_ fought back. Jonny can barely breathe with the thought of it.

He goes over to Patrick’s side when he’s done with the media, feeling magnetized by that skin that’s about to be next to his. “Your place or mine?” he says in a low voice, slipping one hand around Patrick’s wrist to brush against the delicate veins on the underside.

Patrick closes his eyes for just a moment at the touch, a slow blink that makes Jonny want to kiss his trembling mouth. But: “My family’s in town.”

“Oh. Fuck,” Jonny says, more sharply than he meant to. He can’t help it: the idea of waiting even an extra few hours to put his mouth on Patrick’s skin feels impossible right now.

“They’re leaving tomorrow,” Patrick says.

“But,” Jonny says, and cuts himself off. It’s totally reasonable for them to wait until tomorrow. They’re two grown men, eleven-year veterans of the NHL; they’re not going to die if they go another twenty-four hours without sex. Jonny just kind of feels like he will.

Patrick looks up at him, and it’s so obvious from his eyes that he wants it, too. Jonny swallows hard. “I could sneak out,” Patrick says.

“You can’t sneak out. You’re thirty,” Jonny says.

“Excuse you, I’m twenty-nine,” Patrick says, and Jonny wants to bite his bottom lip until he screams.

“When they leave for the airport,” Jonny says. “Come over then.”

Patrick nods, eyes fixed on Jonny’s mouth.

***

Jonny brings himself off when he gets home. That’s not against the terms of their sex bet. He’s allowed to fuck his own hand as much as he wants, imagining that it’s Patrick’s, imagining that Patrick’s doing the same thing above him.

He might do it a couple of times.

The next day he tries to guess when Patrick’s family is going to leave for the airport. It’s a thing he likes to do where he imagines the longest possible time he might have to wait for the thing he wants, and then he adds a few hours to give himself endurance. Patrick said they’re leaving today, and realistically they wouldn’t have a flight after eight p.m., which means leaving for the airport no later than six-thirty, which means Patrick could be here by seven. So Jonny won’t hope for anything before nine.

That leaves him a whole day to fill, and he has plenty of things to fill it with—the kind of errands he never has time for when he’s busy with practice and team meetings. But instead he ends up making himself breakfast and then going for a walk in the park.

It’s a good day for it: sunny, not too cold yet. Jonny walks on the paths and nods to the dog-walkers and relives in his mind all the times he and Patrick have fucked over the past week. It warms him enough that he ends up taking off his jacket.

There’s no text yet from Patrick when he gets back, so he answers a bunch of emails and then tries to figure out what he has to do that’s the most urgent. He’s having trouble focusing, though, and he ends up sitting down on the couch and thinking about what he’s going to do when Patrick gets here—how maybe he’ll eat him out before he fucks him. Patrick used to love that. Jonny hasn’t done that in years, hasn’t really slept with anyone he trusts enough to rim them, but he remembers how Patrick used to shove back against his mouth and gasp for air. The little clenches of Patrick’s hole around his tongue. The way Patrick’s cock would be rock-hard and dripping, kind of like where Jonny’s cock is headed right now, which is a problem because Patrick hasn’t even texted yet which means it’ll be at least an hour until—

The doorbell rings. Jonny rips the door open to see Patrick standing there, looking just about as desperate as Jonny feels. “Oh, thank fuck,” Jonny says, and pulls him inside.

Jonny means to carry out his plan of bringing Patrick to the bedroom and eating him out before fucking him. But Patrick’s making these little noises as Jonny kisses him, already twitching his hips against Jonny’s, and Jonny can feel how hard his cock is. Rigid in his sweats, the heat of it seeping through the layers of clothing, and Jonny wants to touch it. Wants to taste it. He gets down on his knees and puts his mouth over it through Patrick’s sweatpants.

Patrick makes this sucked-in gasping sound. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Come on—” And Jonny peels off his sweats and—

“You went commando to take your family to the airport?” Jonny says, once he’s recovered from the sight of Patrick’s cock in his face.

Patrick has his head tipped back against the wall. “Such a tough drive, you don’t even know,” he says. “Knew you were gonna—when I got here—”

Jonny swallows down the burst of saliva in his mouth. Patrick’s cock is thick and red, veins standing out. He licks over the shiny head, and Patrick keens.

He sucks Patrick until his hips are shuddering under Jonny’s hands, until Jonny himself is so hard he’s practically squirming. He told himself for about five minutes at the beginning of their hooking up, back in rookie year, that he didn’t like giving head, but it was so clear so quickly that he was lying to himself. Patrick’s hot cock swelling in his mouth is never going to be something he doesn’t like.

He swallows when Patrick spills down his throat— _the only way you’ll eat sugar,_ Patrick said to him once—and surges up to kiss the hell out of Patrick. He knows he’s being kind of rude with the way he’s shoving his cock against Patrick’ hip, but a person is only capable of so much.

“I would return the favor,” Patrick says into his mouth, “but—”

Didn’t earn it. Jonny knows that. “How about I fuck you?” he asks, and Patrick groans his agreement.

It took a couple of years of hooking up for them to do this: Jonny fucking Patrick right after he’d come. Patrick always reacts strongly to being fucked, but after he’s come he gets so far gone he’s practically on another planet. They both thought at first that it wouldn’t work, and Jonny was so cautious the first time, but after a while it was obvious how much Patrick loved being overwhelmed like that. “It’s like I’m not even in my body anymore,” Patrick murmured to him once, after, and Jonny thought he got it: it was like a really good workout, how it can break all your limits and clear out anything you were holding onto until there’s nothing left but the physical.

Patrick’s lying limp now, panting, while Jonny fingers him, letting out these little involuntary huffs every time Jonny brushes by his prostate. It’s a good thing it doesn’t take too long when he’s loose like this; the sight, Patrick’s pale skin and spent red cock and fluttering crescents of his eyelashes are just…Jonny defies anyone to look at him like this and not ache to be inside him.

_Four times,_ he thinks dizzily as he pushes in. Three more after this, three chances to put his cock inside Patrick’s body and fuck these reactions out of him, little tremors and gasps. Jonny’s so focused on him, he barely pays attention to the pressure around his own cock, just feels it as this generalized wave of pleasure lifting him up and pushing him forward. Into Patrick.

“Yeah,” Patrick’s saying, “yeah, yeah,” and then the sound stops coming out and he’s just gasping silently at the air. His tongue flicks out, seeking, and Jonny gives him his fingers to suck—makes it harder to balance, but the urgency with which Patrick sucks on his fingers makes Jonny’s abs clench. Patrick’s sheened with sweat, chest glistening, little drops pooling in the hollow of his throat. His chin keeps jerking up, his teeth scraping against Jonny’s fingers. His eyelids are shut tightly like he’s in pain, but Jonny knows he’s not. Jonny knows he’s being pushed outside of himself, the impact of Jonny’s thrusts on his prostate almost but not quite too much to handle, his whole body shivering and writhing and—

Jonny doesn’t know he’s about to come until he does: straining to push his cock as far into Patrick as possible, teeth gritted against the impossible hugeness of it, pressure threatening to burst his skull. When he finally blinks his eyes to clear them a few beats later, Patrick is staring up at him, hazy-eyed, new dribbles of come on his stomach.

“Did you just…”

“Mrglthb,” Patrick says, and Jonny’s hips twitch with the aftershocks.

He holds Patrick after, nosing at his chest and licking the sweat off his collarbones and the come off his abs. They’re both a mess, but Patrick is out like Jonny drugged him, and Jonny’s not moving away from him. Not while he’s like this. He puts his arms around Patrick and holds on instead.

Later, after they’ve cleaned up and eaten lunch, they sit on the couch and watch BoJack Horseman, Patrick sprawled against Jonny’s chest with his leg thrown over Jonny’s in a way that maybe should be annoying but isn’t. It’s a way they never would have sat before the sex bet—when they used to hook up, sure, but not for the last five years. They would have sat a couple of feet apart, only touching to shove at each other, maybe. Jonny watches the show—tries to watch the show—and soaks in the knowledge that things are different now. His whole body feels full to the bursting with it, spilling over to fill the palms of his hands.

Patrick thuds his head back against Jonny’s shoulder. “I need more food.”

His ear is right next to Jonny’s mouth. Jonny turns to lip at it. “There are smoothies in the fridge.”

“Is there kale in them?” Patrick asks. “Or weird powders?”

“Just protein,” Jonny says, biting a little for the _weird powders_ comment. He’s not even doing the Onnit stuff anymore.

Patrick turns his head a little, and it puts his mouth really near Jonny’s. Jonny thinks about kissing him—if they’re cuddling, are they allowed to kiss? “Okay, but I’m gonna judge you if it’s gross,” Patrick says, and gets up before Jonny can do anything else.

He comes back with a green drink, takes a sip, and makes a _so-so_ face. “It’s not bad,” he says, settling in against Jonny again. “You want a taste?”

Jonny takes a sip. He knows he’ll like it; he likes all the smoothies in the fridge. “Tastes all right.”

When he gives the smoothie back, Patrick’s looking at his mouth. Then he leans in and kisses him, his mouth cool and green-tasting against Jonny’s and making Jonny’s stomach flip in surprise.

They make out for a while, dreamily, Patrick’s mouth sweet and lush against his. He keeps breaking away to make these little sighs whenever Jonny strokes over his scalp or behind his ears. It’s…the best afternoon Jonny’s had in a while.

They don’t get each other off. They don’t have any handjobs or blowjobs left, and Jonny doesn’t have any stuff out here for fucking. He wants to save it, anyway. This is something different: just enjoying the taste of Patrick, having him close, being able to touch like he never would have been able to before.

They fuck before they go to sleep that night, Jonny riding Patrick’s cock while Patrick snipes at him about how he’s doing the rhythm all wrong. But his cheeks are pink and his hips keep jerking up to drive further into Jonny so Jonny doesn’t think it’s that big a problem. Especially not when Patrick loses it barely ten minutes in, right in the middle of a sentence.

They get rid of the condom and sack out on the bed, Patrick mouthing lazily at Jonny’s knuckles. “Practice tomorrow,” he mumbles.

“Mm,” Jonny says. He doesn’t love the idea of leaving the bubble they’ve been in today. But it feels like the bubble will stretch past practice tomorrow, past the rest of the world in their space: they do have to fuck five more times, after all.

***

It’s such a good arrangement. Jonny doesn’t know why they weren’t doing this last year, the year before, always. It makes life so much better than it was. Jonny never stopped loving hockey, loving his job; but now he’s not even sure it’s the best part of his day. It has a lot to compete with.

He decides not to let himself fuck Patrick again until the next night. Patrick comes home with him after practice, and Jonny lets himself kiss him when they come through the door; but then they both pull away after a couple of minutes, breathing a little hard. “I have to sign some fan stuff, want to hang out?” Jonny asks, and Patrick ends up next to him at the table, foot stroking up Jonny’s calf while they work.

They basically don’t stop touching all afternoon. When they go to work out later in the building’s gym, Jonny’s body feels awesome: like Patrick’s touch is making him thrive, like this was the thing really missing in his nutrition plan. He nuzzles Patrick’s nape on his way past him back at the condo and thinks about how in a few hours he’ll spread Patrick out and fuck him. Then he turns around, to make sure Patrick has a towel, and—“Oh.”

It comes out a little bit squeaky. Patrick has stripped down, in front of the bathroom but not inside of it yet. He’s pulling his shirt off over his head, his back muscles and glutes gleaming—

Jonny goes a little mad then and doesn’t really come back to himself until he has Patrick spread out on the dining room table, his cock buried in him while Patrick goads him on. “Come on, Jonny’s, that’s—ah—the best you can—oh, _fuck,_ ” Patrick says as Jonny changes angles and lifts him up on his toes.

They manage not to get come on the fan merch. “Not for lack of effort,” Patrick says.

They’re draped across one end of the table, trying to catch their breath. “Hey, it’s not my fault you look like that naked,” Jonny says, and Patrick ducks his head but not before Jonny sees the way he’s grinning.

They shower together. It’s better for the environment that way.

***

They each have one fuck left by the time they get to their game against the Wild on Thursday, which is good, because they lose. Jonny gets an assist—“Secondary,” Patrick says, like it matters; he’s just annoyed that he doesn’t have any points—so he’s gonna get a blowjob, but they’re down to three times.

It’s okay. Three times is still a lot. And they have another game in two days.

Q chews them out, and Jonny spends a few minutes with some of the younger guys who need it. Kahun is doing great, way better than he thinks he is, and Brinksy knows he’s good but always does better when Jonny takes the time to give him feedback on his plays. When Jonny’s done, Patrick is waiting to walk with him to the bus.

“We knew our goaltending was going to bite us,” Patrick says.

“We shouldn’t need it,” Jonny says.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “It’s stats. We can’t keep winning if the other teams are even only almost as good as us, and their goalies are better.”

Jonny shrugs. It always feel risky to him to think that way. He does better if he focuses on the parts he can control and doesn’t blame other factors for their failures. He knows Patrick doesn’t feel the same way, though; it’s an argument they’ve had to death, back in their rookie days.

He doesn’t want to fight about it now. “Crow will be back soon,” he says. Last year, that’s where he would have left the conversation; this year, he makes sure no one’s around and snags Patrick’s fingers with his, just for a second. Patrick shoots him a grin, surprised and then a little bashful, ducking his head.

Jonny’s been trying to mix up who he sits with on flights the past few years, but he doesn’t fight it tonight: he sits next to Patrick and sacks out against him and falls asleep as soon as the engines start vibrating around them. He’s groggy when they land, and he doesn’t expect Patrick to come home with him, but he does, and when they get to Jonny’s bedroom, Patrick pushes him down and goes for his fly.

Jonny thinks about objecting—he always likes to stretch good things out, and he doesn’t know when he’ll get another blowjob. But he catches the look on Patrick’s face, the way his mouth falls open when Jonny’s cock comes out, and he doesn’t say anything. Not if Patrick wants it this much.

Patrick’s mouth on his cock definitely wakes Jonny up, and by the time Jonny comes in his mouth, Patrick’s face is pink, lashes wet around his dazed eyes. Jonny starts to pull him up to take care of him—and stops.

He can see the moment Patrick realizes it, too: that Patrick doesn’t have anything left according to the terms of their bet except fucking Jonny, and that feels like way too much for right now, even if they didn’t have to get up for practice in the morning. Jonny thinks about offering anyway, opens his mouth twice to say something—

“I’m gonna jerk off,” Patrick says, and Jonny flops back in relief.

“Yeah, come on,” he says, tugging at Patrick. Patrick gets the idea after a minute and climbs on top of him, straddling his waist just above his spent cock and jerking off onto Jonny’s chest.

Jonny loves watching him, especially when he himself has just come and he isn’t distracted by his own arousal. Patrick’s eyes keep drifting shut, then jerking open to look at Jonny again, then closing as he gets lost in the sensations. His fist is working fast over his lubed-up cock, the head vanishing and reappearing. Jonny remembers learning when they first started hooking up how Patrick needed lube to be able to jerk off. He remembers the strangeness of Patrick’s lubed-up cock in his hand those first few times, the slickness of the hot delicate skin, the way it made his own cock jerk and swell.

“Fuuuuuck,” Patrick says, hips jolting a few times, and when Jonny looks up Patrick’s eyes are locked on his, bleary, until they roll back in his head and his come spatters over Jonny’s chest.

Patrick seems about to drop off where he stands as he gets a washcloth for Jonny, but Jonny feels awake now, even when Patrick’s nestled in his arms, breathing slow and even. Jonny holds him and wonders how long this sex bet is going to last. They never set an end date on it, but they didn’t say it was gonna go on forever, either. But the condos at 9 Walton will be ready soon; maybe Patrick will want to keep going, once it’s even more convenient. Maybe even beyond the season—

Jonny cuts off that line of thought. Better not to hope for that kind of thing. He closes his eyes instead and matches his breathing to Patrick’s until he falls asleep.

***

If Minnesota was bad, the second game St. Louis is even worse. Not only does the team lose, but both Patrick nor Jonny play like shit.

Jonny can tell Patrick’s frustrated with himself in the locker room afterward. Everyone is frustrated with themselves; but Patrick’s usually better at not showing it than this.

Patrick’s family wasn’t there for this one, so Jonny follows him home. He’s wishing he hadn’t fucked Patrick yesterday. They only have one round left, Patrick fucking him, and tonight doesn’t feel like the right mood for that. Jonny would like to save it as long as he can, actually; they have four days off between games this time, and that feels like a really long time. But it would be nice to be able to curl up with Patrick and at least exchange handjobs tonight. Let off some steam.

They do make out, anyway, as soon as they’re under the covers: Patrick turns toward him and Jonny takes his mouth right away. There’s a moment a little while later when Jonny has his tongue in Patrick’s mouth and his hand on Patrick’s back, just above the swell of his ass, and Patrick’s hips jerk toward him—and then they both go still, realizing where this is going.

They start kissing again a moment later, but they’re different kisses, tapering off. “Just gotta score more points,” Patrick says, and Jonny feels the bite of it in his stomach: he _knows._

They manage to put off fucking until the second day of the break. Jonny busies himself with errands and team stuff that first day, but then he and Patrick have lunch plans with Sharpy the second, and something about seeing Patrick laughing with Sharpy—

“You’re just jealous of our awesome friendship,” Patrick says when Jonny’s driving them back after, his hand high up on Patrick’s thigh.

“I am not.” Jonny’s friends with Sharpy, too. “It was a dumb joke anyway.”

“It was a fucking brilliant joke, don’t even front.” Then, a couple moments later: “What, no comeback?”

“Sorry,” Jonny says, blinking and trying to focus on the road. “You’re…”

Patrick’s been running his fingers up the inside of Jonny’s wrist, just above where Jonny’s gripping his thigh.

“Oh.” Patrick stops doing it. But he winds his fingers through Jonny’s, holding tight enough to ache, and Jonny grimly inches the car up over the speed limit.

Patrick’s fucking him fifteen minutes later, Jonny on his knees and pushing back into Patrick’s thrusts until he feels like the top of his head is going to come off.

“Maybe we shouldn’t hang out much the next couple of days,” Patrick says after, and Jonny’s stomach clenches up small and tight but he agrees. It’s the only way they’re going to get through this.

Besides, it’s a good thing for other reasons: he has a lot of other people in his life, and he’s been neglecting them in favor of Patrick. It feels good to catch up on the phone with his parents and go to dinner with Seabs and Dayna and Carter and go out dancing with Duncs. It feels like years since the two of them have done that. He even goes out with some of the younger guys the night before their game against Arizona, and that’s great except that Patrick comes, too.

It’s not like Jonny hasn’t seen him. They’ve both been at practice. But there were other things for Jonny to focus on at practice; Patrick wasn’t across from him at a bar table, laughing at Joki’s jokes and toying with the straw in his soda.

Jonny’s just drinking water, because he’s not about to poison himself with diet soda and he knows better than to drink the night before a game. But his inhibitions seem to be shot to hell anyway, because he can’t tear his eyes off of the way Patrick’s tonguing that straw.

He gets up to go to the bathroom at one point, and when he comes out Patrick’s waiting for his turn. He looks startled to see Jonny come out, and for a second Jonny thinks about the bathroom behind him with its locking door—pushing Patrick up against the wall, kissing him until he’s breathless and hard—

But: “All yours,” he says, and steps aside. Patrick licks his lips and casts his eyes down and goes by him.

“Oh good, I thought you were going to leave us unattended,” Brinksy says when Jonny gets back to the table. He’s smirking over his very illegal beer. “Can’t have us drinking without Mom and Dad around.”

“We can still send you back to juniors,” Jonny says, and Brinksy just laughs.

The conversation goes in other directions around him for a few minutes, and Jonny realizes he’s craning his neck every few seconds to see if Patrick’s coming back.

“Actually,” he says, probably interrupting Kahun, who looks confused, “I think I might go home. Gotta get sleep for tomorrow, all that.”

“Is Kaner still in the bathroom?” Brinksy asks, and Jonny thinks about waiting for him to get back—maybe convincing him to leave with him, playing footsie in the back of an Uber, kissing as they take their shoes off in Patrick’s front hall. Wrapping his arm around him in bed.

“I don’t know,” Jonny says. “Tell him I said goodbye, okay?” He slips out of the booth and leaves a couple of twenties on the table—the kids are still on entry-level contracts.

There are reasons they’re doing it this way, he reminds himself as he goes out into the crisp October night. Incentives. Scoring. Goals. In fact, those are the only reasons they’re doing this at all.

***

Jonny can tell himself that all he likes, but when they get to the end of the next game without a win or a point for either of them, he’s frustrated for reasons beyond their losing record.

“It’s just a slump,” Duncs says to him afterward in the locker room. “It happens.”

“I know,” Jonny says as he rips at his skate laces. It’s just starting to feel a little too much like the last couple of years, when he got more familiar with slumps than he ever wanted to be.

Patrick’s sitting in his stall across the room, biting his lip and not doing anything yet to pull off his pads. The team scored a couple of goals tonight, but it wasn’t enough, and neither of them were involved in them.

There’s no reason for them to go home together tonight. They aren’t on the road; they don’t have connecting hotel rooms; they don’t have a sex bet to collect on. But Jonny hates the idea of going home alone.

He doesn’t have to, says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his mother. He does, technically, have a girlfriend; one he’s been neglecting these past few weeks, even if he’s pretty sure she’s not upset about it. They both get what they need to out of the relationship. But he has options, is the point. It’s just that there’s only one option he wants right now.

He goes to stand next to Patrick. “Up to anything tonight?”

Patrick looks up at him with eyes that are really tired. It makes Jonny want to wrap him in a blanket and lie down with him for ten hours or so. “No. My parents are driving back.”

“So,” Jonny says, because Patrick doesn’t look like he gets it. “So, come over.”

Patrick darts a quick look around them. “We can’t—”

“No, just.” Jonny huffs in frustration at not finding the words he wants. “I mean, we used to do stuff, right? Before this. You can still come over.”

Patrick looks at him for a moment, like he’s considering. “Okay.”

It’s not weird, Jonny tells himself as he drives home to meet Patrick; it’s the kind of thing they used to do all the time. But it is weird. It’s definitely weird. It’s weird from the first moment Patrick comes in, when Jonny wants to kiss him but knows he shouldn’t, because if he kisses him he’ll want to do other stuff. It’s weird when they sit on the couch together with only their feet overlapping, and Jonny feels like all of his attention is concentrated in those feet, in the little bit of skin-on-skin where Patrick’s toes are resting against his ankle.

It’s only two days until their next game. He might get to fuck Patrick then: hold him, jerk him off, suck him, kiss him. But right now it feels like there’s a wall up between him and Patrick, and Jonny keeps battering himself against it.

Jonny almost says something about it before they go to bed. He almost says, don’t sleep in the guest room—almost tells Patrick to come into his bed, even if they don’t do anything, even if it’s just to sleep. He can’t bear the idea of being in separate rooms all night.

It feels a little too much like the year after the second Cup: when Patrick had just put an end to things, and the CBA changes that hadn’t seemed to matter much the year before when they were sneaking into each other’s rooms anyway now mattered a lot. Jonny would have said a couple of months ago that he was fine that year, that it was a change but nothing he couldn’t handle. But now the distance between him and Patrick in the hallway is digging sharp and pointed into his chest, and the pain feels familiar.

“You could—” he blurts out before he can stop himself, and Patrick turns on his way into the guest bedroom.

“Yeah?” he says. He looks young in the dim light of the hall: eyes big, hair curling on his forehead like when he was still in his teens. Jonny remembers the uncertainty of those days: never knowing if Patrick was going to walk straight into his arms or straight past him. Patrick can say it was tied to games, and maybe it was, but Jonny’s pretty sure it wasn’t that clear a pattern. He remembers wants, all the time, and never having enough.

He hates having that feeling back. He wishes he could get rid of it, but if it means he might get Patrick in his arms in the next few days—he’ll take what he can get.

“Nothing,” he says. “Have a good night.”

Patrick nods, teeth sunk into his lower lip, and disappears into the guest room.

***

Patrick leaves before skate the next morning. It’s for the best: Jonny’s been gripping the handles of the kitchen drawer behind him for the past ten minutes, trying to keep himself from reaching out and tucking the tag back into Patrick’s shirt.

They’re flying to Columbus tomorrow, for a game tomorrow night. It feels like such a long time from now.

Jonny fills the time the best way he knows how: by training. There are twice as many reasons as before to score in tomorrow’s game. He shouldn’t really need any reasons other than the obvious. But he feels like he’s in some kind of tunnel, walls pressing tight around him, and he won’t be able to breathe properly until something good happens tomorrow.

The game comes, and Jonny has seven shots on goal. Sergei Bobrovsky shuts down every single one.

He shuts down every shot the team takes, actually, and there are a lot of them. Patrick has an amazing look later in the third—Jonny’s heart is in his throat, thinking they have a chance to tie it up—but he’s denied, Bobrovsky moving faster than Jonny would have thought possible. And then the buzzer sounds and the game is over.

It’s their fourth regulation loss in a row. Jonny has a hell of a time talking to the press. He manages to find the words he needs, but his chest feels like it’s deflating. Like he has to work extra hard to expand his ribs with every breath. “We had some amazing opportunities tonight. We just need to keep going, capitalize on them,” he says, and he’s sure he doesn’t sound convincing, but he’s saying it. He’s doing his job. That’s all he can do, since apparently he can’t score anymore.

The team ends up waiting on the bus for a while at the stadium, because there are thunderstorms over Chicago and all the flights are delayed. Jonny decided to be smart and sit next to Seabs instead of Patrick, but he regrets it before the first twenty minutes has gone by. He could at least be leaning against Patrick’s side right now. It wouldn’t be great for the whole not-going-to-have-sex thing, but at least he wouldn’t be sitting here going crazy.

He can sort of see Patrick’s head over the top of the seat two rows in front of him and across the aisle. Patrick’s leaning back like he’s tired, his ear lit by the occasional headlights of passing cars. Jonny puts his hands under his thighs and closes his eyes.

Stan gets onto the bus after maybe 45 minutes of that and gets their attention. “Looks like we’re not flying back tonight,” he says, and everyone groans. No one’s really too pissed—everyone knows Stan would have done his best to get them home—but everyone’s tired. Jonny does what he can to model positivity as they pull into the drive of the nearest Marriott, even though what he really wants to do is curl up in his own bed at home and never come out.

Patrick ends up next to him in the elevator. Jonny’s whole body goes on alert right away, most of him wanting to edge closer and a cautionary voice telling him to stay way. But Patrick’s the one who moves closer, pressing his shoulder against Jonny’s.

Jonny feels like a thousand knots in his gut instantly unravel. He shouldn’t need this, but he does, he does.

He’s not super surprised to see Patrick unlock the door right next to his in their hallway. The team still does this: gives them connecting doors when it’s not too much trouble. But it doesn’t usually feel as charged as it does to Jonny when he goes inside and puts down his gear. He has no excuse to knock on the door—but also he has to stay up until the team sends up the emergency toiletries they promised to find, and it’s been days and days and the game was miserable and Jonny just _wants._

Not even sex, necesarily. He just wants to be able to reach across the space between them and—something. Anything. But Patrick hasn’t really made it clear he wants that. A sex bet isn’t the same as—and it’s good, what they have right now. It’s something that could go on for a long time. Jonny’s not going to mess it up.

There’s a knock at the connecting door.

Patrick’s on the other side, in a soft t-shirt and shorts. “I just wanted to say goodnight,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, nonsensically. He stretches out a hand halfway into the space between them, then lets it drop. He’s not supposed to touch. He doesn’t have a reason to. “Are you, um.”

They look at each other for a minute, not quite meeting each other’s gazes. “Sorry we didn’t score,” Patrick says finally.

“Well.” Jonny can smell him: the shampoo he always uses, that mix of soap and laundry detergent and fabric softener and whatever else automatically says Patrick to him. “We definitely have incentives now, don’t we?”

“Yeah.” Patrick’s breath sounds shaky when he sucks it in. He closes his eyes and sways a little closer to Jonny. Jonny reaches out to steady him automatically, his hand on Patrick’s bare arm. Patrick pushes into the touch.

“Maybe,” Jonny says, choking on his own breath, “maybe we could just—”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, eyelashes sweeping up, eyes wide and blown black, and Jonny leans in and takes his mouth.

Just a kiss goodnight. Nothing wrong with that. But Patrick’s mouth on his makes him moan, and Patrick pushes his body up against Jonny’s. Jonny tastes his wet soft mouth, little sips, each one feeling like it’s slaking some desperate thirst he’s had for days and days. Patrick’s back is warm under his hands through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and he gasps when Jonny pushes him against the door frame and, and, Jonny should stop. This isn’t where things are supposed to go.

Patrick shoves his suit jacket off his arms and onto the floor.

Jonny should stop, but the bet feels so much less real to Jonny than Patrick in this moment, panting in his arms. So much less important. Jonny slides his hands down to Patrick’s ass, and Patrick hitches his hips up against Jonny’s, and the jolt of pleasure is so much better than anything else Jonny’s felt for days. For years, if he’s honest with himself. So many years, telling himself he could make do without Patrick in his arms.

He slips his hands down the back of Patrick’s shorts, and Patrick groans and starts fighting with his belt.

They leave a trail of clothing leading to the bed, some of it possibly damaged. Jonny doesn’t care: he has Patrick pressed up against him, and it’s dumb and probably a mistake but screw the bet, Patrick’s cock is hard against his. Patrick’s cock is leaking at the tip and Jonny’s going to swallow him down and then fuck him and—

There’s a knock on the door. “Tazer!” someone calls. “Got your toiletries.”

Jonny freezes, braced above Patrick. Patrick stares up at him with wide eyes and kiss-bitten lips.

Another knock. “Taze? You there?”

“Fuck,” Jonny says, and scrambles off Patrick and goes for the hotel bathrobe.

He’s at least semi-decent when he opens the door. Fortunately, Matthias is fumbling with his bag of toiletries. “Got a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss—did you need a razor?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jonny says, blindly taking what Matthias gives him. “Oh—and I’ll take Kaner’s,” he says, when Matthias is turning way. “We were hanging out.”

“Oh, sure,” Matthias says, unconcerned, and then Jonny can finally shut the door.

He takes a second to straighten his robe. Then he turns around to look at Patrick, sitting up in bed.

“So,” Jonny says. “That was.” And then he can’t actually think of the right adjective for it.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. He’s looking down at his lap, teeth worrying at his lower lip. His hands are twisted in the sheet.

Jonny wants to be biting that lip himself almost more than anything else. Almost enough not to worry about the consequences—but it’s harder to ignore them when he’s standing here in a bathrobe, travel-sized toiletries in his hands, Patrick a solid ten feet away. Harder to pretend he’s going to get what he wants.

Harder to pretend he doesn’t know what that is.

“I guess,” Patrick says, still looking at his hands. “I guess we shouldn’t.”

Jonny makes a noise. He doesn’t mean to, and he bites down on his own lips a second later, but Patrick’s head comes flying up. They stare at each other for a long moment, Jonny wanting to look away but not able to, and then Patrick says, “Fuck it. Just—” And Jonny drops all the toiletries on the floor and lunges onto the bed and takes that face in his hands, that face he wants to be touching always, and kisses it and kisses it.

They end up rubbing off against each other—the one thing that wasn’t covered in their sex bet, Jonny realizes giddily as he drives his cock against Patrick’s hip. They’re gasping into each other’s mouths, like they did when they got off together just before the start of the season, and Jonny can’t believe he thought he could be okay with a _bet_ after that. But maybe he can believe it: because if he’d let himself think about what he really wanted, he wouldn’t have been able to do it at all, and then—

Patrick is bucking under him, breath hissing through his teeth, and when he comes Jonny buries his face in Patrick’s neck and bites, tastes the clean sweat that’s springing up on his skin and holds on tight.

“We’ll have to figure out how to tell our families,” he whispers a few minutes later, when Patrick is nestled against his shoulder.

“I already told my parents this week,” Patrick says, and Jonny jerks his head up to look him in the face, his own face stretching into a helpless smile.

“You—” he says, and kisses Patrick, and Patrick laughs and hooks his leg around Jonny’s hip. Jonny doesn’t think he can go another round—not after that game—but hey, if they really wanted to, they could. They could do anything they want, now.

***

The next day, they play Tampa Bay at home. “Blow you if you score,” Patrick whispers to him on the bench in the middle of the first period.

“You’ll blow me anyway,” Jonny says, not taking his eyes off the play.

“True,” Patrick says, grin audible in his voice. And then, just before Jonny goes over the boards for his next shift: “But score and I’ll let you fuck my face.”

They win the game.


End file.
